


Little Drummer Boy

by jujubeans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys In Love, Case Fun, Drummer Boy with Attitude, Fingering, Fluff and Crack, Jokes on Mycroft, Jungle Beats, M/M, Oral Sex, Tiny bit of rimming, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubeans/pseuds/jujubeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All is not quiet in 221b.  The drummer two doors down is putting Sherlock off his rhythm...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Drummer Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Just a tiny bit of case fun for everyone.  
> Many, many thanks to Morgan Rose for her wonderfully informative and essential descriptions of drumming styles and techniques. You're a sweetheart. Hopefully dinner was a fair exchange.  
> And to Charly-Dee - I put a succulent in there for you!  
> 

“Oh god yes, Sherlock”

The subject of said sentence opened his eyes and peered up at John through impossibly long lashes and noted the taut neck, the head hanging limply backward, the hips thrusting toward his mouth. John looked so abandoned lying there on the couch with his legs spread widely for him. Sherlock hummed appreciatively, “Mmmmmmm” around his mouthful of cock.

“Bollocking hell that feels good.” Two hands landed in Sherlock’s dark curls urging him on.

He slid a hand up John’s thigh, thumb zeroing in on one of his favourite spots when he suddenly lost his rhythm – 

_Boom bang bang crash, bang bang thump, boom bang thump ting_

“Holy fucking mother of hell! Don’t you dare stop, Sherlock!”

Deaf to John’s pleas, Sherlock froze. His mouth still full of John, he tried to calm his ire by taking three deep breaths through his nose, but you try doing this with a mouth full of doctor and see how calm you get.

A soft _pop_ and corresponding _groan_ from John signalled the end of any chance at satisfaction. “Sherlock, please don’t go off the deep end again. It’s just drumming. Can we please try to ignore it today and perhaps get back to what we were doing?”

“It’s no good, John. You know I can’t concentrate on my rhythm when there’s an alternate one – and syncopated at that – going on two doors down.”

“But Sherlock,” John rasped desperately, “the bastard plays so often, if we don’t manage to learn to ignore it we’ll never have sex again!”

Sherlock paced the living room, agitated and rattled. “I’ve tried going in to The Yard to complain about it to Gary but he doesn’t want to know about it. After all the help I give him. Ingrate.”

“It’s _Greg_ , Sherlock. _Greg_ Lestrade. And he told you the coppers can’t do anything about it because the bastard doesn’t play after ten at night and eleven on weekends. And he also pointed out that you play your violin all through the night sometimes and no one has ever complained about you. He probably has a valid point”

“I know where I’d like to insert his valid point…”

“Listen, stop pacing and come back here,” John held out his hand toward Sherlock in a beseeching manner, hoping his pouting-John look would return him to his former position, and for a moment John thought he’d succeeded. Sherlock dropped to his knees between John’s legs and grabbed both his hands and yanked. Twice.

“John, don’t you see? When I’m worshiping your body I have music already playing in my head. How can I possibly focus with a competing rhythm? This boy is putting me off! There must be something we can do… An ASBO perhaps…?”

John let his head drop to the back of the couch in defeat. “Just let it be. He might be a career musician for all we know, practicing for work. He’s good enough to be. You can’t begrudge him his practice.”

“Wrong, John. How can you deduce so poorly? It’s not a man, it’s just a boy – a teenager, about sixteen. Slight build, left handed, terrible attitude, frequent masturbator, dread locks, wears glasses, mixed race – English father and Afro-Caribbean mother – with porn mags under the mattress.”

“… wh-… how the bloody hell did you get all that? Have you seen him in the street?”

“Of course not, John. It’s obvious.”

“Yes, of course it is. Blatantly. Well if I’m not going to get sucked-off I think I’ll go make some tea. Want a cup?” John knew the best way to make Sherlock stew and burn to explain his deductions was to feign disinterest. He smiled to himself as he put on the kettle, some small consolation for his unforthcoming orgasm. 

The drumming had been an at least twice-daily occurrence since new neighbours had moved in two weeks ago. It was annoying, to be sure, but it seemed to bother Sherlock more than himself. He was working on tuning it out, although as he’d said, the playing was quite good. It’s just that, in his opinion, it would be a bit less like banging and more like music with a couple of other instruments participating. If he couldn’t talk Sherlock around somehow he was going to have to resort to slipping earplugs in when he was distracted, or possibly slip on the ear hat. 

“Yes, tea would be nice” he mused as he paced the floor. John gave it about thirty seconds before Sherlock wouldn’t be able to help but show-off. The kettle boiled. Annnnnnyy second now… three, two, one…

“John! How could you be so ignorant? Have I taught you nothing?” Sherlock took one of his deep pre-explanation breaths before launching in at top speed:  
“From the first day I was able to deduce that this was a left-handed teenaged boy with glasses. Several factors led to this decision, the primary two being room selection and drum kit positioning. The buildings on this street all follow an identical internal pattern. The drumming is emanating from the front bedroom of the flat, which is inferior in size and privacy to the rear bedroom, which would, of course, be inhabited by the parents of the household, therefore the drummer is not of parental age. Add to that the fact that the hours the drumming is heard are more in line with school hours and not work hours and you have confirmation,” Sherlock paused to drag in another deep breath and resumed in the same speed and tone, “Knowing what we do about the position of the doorway in the front bedroom of these flats and the placement of the window, add to that the fact that the window is west-facing therefore gets bright sun in the afternoon hours – just after school when his first afternoon practice session begins – it is not possible that the kit would be set-up on the south side of the room where the wall is short and would have to be placed adjacent to the window where the sun would shine straight into his eyes while he’s trying to play. That only leaves the space in the front corner of the north side of the room with the kit facing south-“

“Hang on a minute,” John interrupted. “Why couldn’t he set it up on the south side facing south? Or at the rear of the room away from the window?”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. “ _John_. Obvious. A drummer would never face his kit to the wall, even to avoid sunlight. The reverb from the wall would not only distort sound but leave the cymbals ringing longer than desired. The rear of the room, if you think of the positioning of these rooms, which are identical, contain the power outlets so is always where occupants set-up their bed and side table for a lamp also avoiding any cold breeze that might get in through old, poorly sealed windows at the front. The room could have been modified, of course, but as you know Mr Raffles owns that building and he’s miserly and wouldn’t have sunk one more pound into that place than he had to, especially not for renters.”

“Brilliant”

Sherlock preened, and like the drummer, he was only on the beginning of his roll. “The left-handed factor took me until the second practice session of that first day to deduce. Due to the nature of the set-up of a standard drum kit, the kick drum is played with the right – or dominant – foot, so it is placed in front of the right leg. The other main drum used to make the main beats is the snare drum. That is usually played by the left – or non-dominant – hand, and is set-up in front of the player. That means if the kit in that particular flat is facing south, the louder, more pounding kick drum would sound closer to the western-facing window and the snare would sound further from it. Those drums in this kit sound opposite to this, therefore the player is left-handed and has his drums set-up in a left-handed arrangement. Simple.”

“How do you do that all with one breath?”

Sherlock’s neck swivelled. “What?”

“Nothing. Don’t let me stop you”

“As to spectacles, it is clear from the way he misses his fills every now and then that he’s doing something with his right hand very briefly on a regular basis. Seeing as drums are quite a physical instrument that require intense concentration, two hands and two feet, it only stands to reason that he’s not doing something like taking a drink or wiping sweat as these tasks would require him to miss many more beats than he does, and wouldn’t be as frequent as they are. Therefore it can only be the quick readjustment of something essential very nearby, hence he wears glasses that slip down his nose when he moves about.”

“Bloody amazing”

“Thank you, John”

“Hang about. How do you know so much about drums? Do you play?”

“A case I worked for my brother. Mycroft knew he had a double agent passing secrets to Korea but couldn’t figure out how the information was getting out. It was ingenious in its simplicity - he was getting the drummer in a jazz club he frequented to play an encoded beat for a Korean agent who was working behind the bar. I was surprised Mycroft didn’t figure it out himself, frankly.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he. It’s all so evident. Seriously, though, some of these other things are a bit of a guess, surely ”

Sherlock’s shoulders lowered as his neck extended giving him an extra two inches. He eyed John disdainfully. “I never guess.”

John knows that Sherlock often guesses, but the guesses were based on other, more sound deductions so he never squabbled with him. Ignoring the hairy eyeball he asked, “Well what about the mixed parentage and the dreads? Explain those!”

“This was a more complex deduction. Over the course of a week or so I couldn’t help but be forced to listen to his repertoire. The music he chooses to play is not typical music for a teenager. Most would be playing music from the charts, bands popular with other teenagers or,” he squinched up his nose, “ _alternative_ music. But no, this boy predominantly plays standard trad jazz classics by British artists, and reggae. Unusual combination. Both genres requiring a completely different set of skills and almost opposing techniques. Jazz drumming emphasising the second and fourth beats of each bar, using tonal fills with off-beats, syncopation and improvisation. There’s often changes in time signature and periods of extended free-drumming without set timing. It uses different parts of the drums, too, such as hitting the metal drum sides. Think of jazz drumming, John, as the abstract art of music. 

Reggae, however, emphasises the first and third beats of each bar, and is much more rigid and tight in its rhythmic structure. There is a similarity in the use of syncopation, but it uses more snappy drum beats, staccato fills and has a fluid, soulfulness to it. The drum beats often double or imitate the horn parts so there has to be more structure – no uninterrupted soloing like you get in jazz. Reggae also uses a splash cymbal and a cow bell quite frequently, which is that horrible hollow sound you can hear every afternoon that makes me want to go over and offer to milk their cow” he ended with a growl.

John’s mouth was hanging open in awe of his cutie pie. He was having trouble computing. He watched Sherlock take two laps of the room again before he continued with another deep breath,  
“So yes, unusual genres not really natural choices for a white teenaged Brit. Think, John, of the only introductions you got to music when you were a child. Having no money or indeed, interest, in listening to a wide range of music in your formative years in order to discover your particular preferences you tend to absorb anything playing around you. Living exclusively at home for the early years of their life, a parent’s musical preferences would be the predominant influence playing in the household. Add to that small external influences such as anything taught in music lessons at school and these are the sum total of repertoire. Until he’s old enough to choose his own radio station – or listen to songs on YouTube these days - or buy his own music.

Most children seek approval from their parents, but especially from their fathers. The fact that he plays reggae in the early afternoon when mothers are more often than not home, and saves the more difficult jazz pieces for later in the evening when fathers are traditionally home leads me to believe his mother is the parent of Caribbean origin, his father is a British jazz lover and he plays music they love in the hope of impressing or pleasing them.

The dreadlocks are more what I imagine you would consider a ‘guess’, John, but I have concluded that it is highly likely given the probable nature of his hair from his mother’s side, its ‘nappy’ tendency to kink readily, the fact that dreadlocks are a rebellious thing to get considering their relatively modern association with Rastafarianism and pot-smoking which would make them almost irresistible to a moody, hormonal, rebellious, teenaged boy who plays the drums.”

Silence

“Sherlock”

“Mmm John?”

“If you don’t get your brilliantly luscious arse over here right now, my little pancake, you’re going to miss out on the best rimming of your life that I will be administering to said arse right after you finish off what you started here not thirty minutes ago AND, NO, DO NOT SPEAK YET because I have deduced while you have been talking, that the no-doubt dreadlocked bugger two doors down has ceased drumming while you were postulating on his parentage and I would like to take advantage of the silence to get you reacquainted with your rhythm before he gets reacquainted with his.”

A consulting detective moved pretty swiftly towards a doctor-strewn sofa at that point. Kneeling was involved. So was sucking, licking, humming, praising, stroking, fingering and various other impulsive acts arising from the heady drama of the moment. Needless to say, said doctor made sure rhythms weren’t disturbed until everyone was happy.

The boys were cuddling on the floor in front of the sofa, John stroking his cutie’s locks back from his forehead, when he recalled an unjustified deduction. “What about the frequent masturbation and porn under the bed, Sherlock. How could you possibly have known about that from his drumming?”

“Nothing to do with his drumming, John. He’s a teenaged boy. Enough said.”

_Boom bang bang crash, bang bang thump, boom bang thump ting_

  


The next few days saw John just about at the end of his tether. Sherlock was driving him mad over the drumming. He had to somehow turn things around so he could get some peace. Well, as much peace as you could get with a frequently practicing drummer two doors down. They were clearing away some mugs and plates from the sink together when John had a thought.

“Would you like to go in to the Yard to see if Lestrade has any cases for you, Sherlock?”

“Texted him this morning, John. Nothing over a three.”

“What about Mycroft?”

“As of this morning he wants me to go to Djibouti to see about some lady bug. I told him to bug-her off.”

“Oh, found a sense of humour now, have we?”

Sherlock smirked. John laughed. “Come here you big idiot. Help me fix this,” he indicated his crotch.

The detective looked green. He loved John’s penis. If anything happened to it he’d go into a decline. “Why? What’s wrong with it, John,” he trembled, scared of the answer. 

“It’s way too hard. I think a bit of stroking will fix it.”

Normal transmission resumed on Sherlock’s face. “Oh thank god, John. I thought-“ he shuddered. “Nothing. I can’t even say it. Just so that nothing happens to it you’d better hide it in here” he deadpanned, turning and bending over the kitchen table. 

John was stunned. Sherlock was in a playful mood and had cracked another joke. Never one to knock back a bit of nasty, his fingers whipped ‘round to deal with dressing gown sashes and was just reaching for the olive oil when-

_Boom bang bang crash, bang bang thump, boom bang thump ting_

“Agh!” Sherlock went to jerk upright. John was having none of it.

“Sherlock! I’m the one in control here this time, so you don’t need to worry about being put off your rhythm. I’m quite capable of performing, drum beat or no, so just lie there and enjoy,” he threatened.

“Ungh, if you insist, John“ he huffed.

John concentrated on blocking out the beat and wiggled a slick finger into Sherlock. 

“Ooooh John. That feels pretty”

John made a sound deep in his throat. He hunkered down and licked around where his finger disappeared into Sherlock.

“Oooooooh John. That feels even prettier”

If there was anything that encouraged John more than his little tasty cake squirming his arse around on him, it was when he started talking during sex. Any kind of talking really – his usual intelligent observations made John get hot for Sherlock’s brain, his tentative coy comments make John squishy in the belly, and when he dropped an octave or two and _rumbled_ John positively lost sight of his own balls. But when Sherlock teased into John’s vicinity, _Oooooooh John. That feels even prettier,_ John possibly lost his humanity and went straight to full-on caveman. He could hear those tribal beats in his head again – no hang on, those were _actual_ beats from two doors down! As John wormed another slippery finger into the bounty before him, twirling and scissoring, receiving a decadent moan, he recognised the song and came to the conclusion that he might just be able to work _with_ the drumming. 

He took himself in hand and pushed gently into the pinch of his lover’s skin. He slipped in smoothly until he was buried to the hilt, groaning at the exquisite welcoming warmth. “Oh god oh god Sherlock. There’s nothing in the world like the feel of you.”

Sherlock grinned at him over his shoulder. “Mmmm that’s it John. You’re safe now. Just stay hidden here forever.”

John chuffed a laugh. “I think we’d find it a bit difficult to get around to cases like this, Sherlock”

“We’ll just get Lestrade to bring lots of crime scene pictures to us here. We’d only have to go out for a nine or a ten.”

“Shut up and hang on to the table, love. I’m feeling _every little thing’s gonna be alright_ at the moment.” And that’s just what John _was_ feeling. He hummed a few bars as he rocked and swung into the gorgeousness prostrated before him, and both of them got their reggae on, thinking _singin’ sweet songs, of melody pure and true, this is my message to you-oo-oo_ and for the first time in almost three weeks, the little drummer boy two doors down actually made them SMILE.

  


From that moment on Sherlock’s attitude to the crashing and banging performed an about-face. It was as if he’d taken the kid under his metaphorical wing, and waited eagerly for practice to begin to see what had transpired each day.

Monday: “He had a bad day at school today, John”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“He’s frustrated. He’s playing his most difficult jazz piece before his father’s even home and he’s rushing through it, bashing it out with no finesse, skimming over the mistakes instead of stopping and working on the difficult passages. And he’s making gratuitous use of the crash cymbal. It’s not going to improve like that. He’s just playing to get his frustrations out.”

" _I'm_ a bit frustrated, Sherlock. Come over here and make gratuitous use of _me_ "

"At your command, Captain..."

  


Tuesday: “He’s in the school band!”

“Oh? Pray tell?”

“Obvious, John. Listen to what he’s playing. And he’s playing it technically solid and true, regimented, not with feeling. He’s learning it for the school musical where the drums have to keep everyone in time, not to show-off his skills.” Sherlock punched his phone, held it to his ear and wandered over to the window and threw it open. “Mycroft! How are you, brother mine?... Nothing, can’t I just phone to see how you are?... What music?... I can’t hear anything, Mycroft. I think you’ve got tinnitus… Mycroft? Hello? Hello? HA! Hilarious, John!”

“What was all that about?”

“Drummer boy’s playing _Do You Hear The People Sing_ , from Les Misérables. It gives Mycroft hives.

  


Wednesday: “Domestic unrest, John”

“How’s that?”

“He hasn’t played a jazz standard in over two days. He’s had an argument with his father and is sulking.”

"Well you'd know, Sherlock. You're good at sulking."

"I am not!"

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

"Look! There's your pouty-face there right now.

"Hmph."

"It's lucky I love your pouty-face. In fact, if you come over here and put that pout on me I'll cook your favourite dinner."

"What, the one with the-"

"Yep, the one with- _Mmmph_ "

  


Thursday: “Oh dear. Medical problems. He’s injured his hand, could be from a fight. Possibly a fall.”

“Oh come on! I can’t hear anything different in his playing”

“No there are definitely late beats there. He’s not rolling with his fills. Must’ve taken an injury to his left. He’s holding back.”

“I don't know what that means Sherlock, but come and roll _my_ fills over here…”

John received a wink and a lowered voice. “Coming, John...”

  


Friday: “Well we’ve either discovered alcohol or pot. My money’s on the pot”

“Sounds good. Let’s go ask for some.” 

Sherlock swung his head around and grinned at John. 

“And how have we discerned this tidbit from his playing today?”

“Listen to that reggae. Remember last week’s Bob Marley?”

“ _Mmmmmmmm_ , how could I forget?”

“Well, just shut your eyes and listen, John”

John did as he was told. Amazingly, he _could_ hear a difference. The playing wasn’t as crisp, as articulate as usual. It was much more laid back. He told Sherlock what he heard.

“Well done, John. It’s just too sloppy, not up to his usual standard. But there’s a bit too much control for alcohol. I’d say it’s more laid-back stoned. Wonder if it has anything to do with dulling the hand pain from yesterday or just youthful caprice.”

“Think about what you were like at sixteen, Sherlock”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shuddered. “I wonder if he’d like to come out with us to see something at Ronnie Scott’s. We’ve got to steer him toward jazz instead of reggae!”

“Sherlock, how many jazz artists were into cocaine and heroin?! And why do you care?”

Sherlock looked wistful. “I kind of like him now.”

  


The weekend was a mishmash of heaven and hell. Saturday morning had Sherlock convinced drummer boy had met a girl.

“John, he’s totally mastering it today. He’s hitting every cue and gliding through sections he normally trips-up on. He’s so upbeat and smooth it _has_ to be a paramour.”

Then Saturday night and Sunday arrived. John felt like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but instead of hearing bells it was drums. Sherlock, on the other hand, was fascinated. He was pacing around the living room, hands steepled, index fingers stroking down and under his chin. 

“Something’s happened. He hasn’t finished a single piece. He’s started nineteen pieces and played them all perfectly fine, if a little aggressively, but hasn’t seen a single one through to the end. It’s almost like when I’m…” John heard Sherlock’s indrawn breath. “No!”

John looked up from his paper and waited for Sherlock to elucidate. The silence persisted. The detective was frozen in place but John couldn’t see his face from his angle. He stood and approached Sherlock carefully, trying not to disturb him lest he was on the verge of something but when he glimpsed his face he could see it was stricken, frozen in shock.

John reached out his arm and curled it around Sherlock’s shoulders. No reaction. He shuffled in close and placed his other hand on a still chest. He could feel Sherlock’s heart racing under his fingers. “Sherlock?” John smoothed his palm down and around the chest as he hugged his shoulders. “Are you OK? What have you discovered?”

His voice came slowly, monotonically, “He’s like me, John,” he intoned. “He’s got something big on his mind and he’s using music to get his mind to work. That’s why he can’t concentrate on any one piece.” Sherlock came out of his trance and swivelled to face John. “John, we’ve got to talk to him. We’ve got to introduce me to him so he knows he’s not the only freak out there.” His eyes dropped.

John stiffened. His arms came down to his sides and his hands clenched. He stuck out his chin and exhaled. “Sherlock, look at me. Look at me right now.”

Sherlock’s eyes met his blankly. “I don’t want to ever hear you say that again. You are NOT a freak.” John grabbed Sherlock’s face between his palms and moved his own right up into it. “YOU… are the most incredible, luminous… _resplendent_ man I’ve ever known, and _will_ ever know. You’ve just spent a week telling me about the life of a kid we’ve never met just by listening to him play the drums, for god’s sake. I mean, it may all be rubbish…….”

“What! Do you doubt me, John?” he gritted indignantly.

“Ha! Knew that’d snap you out of it! Of course I don’t doubt you. I’ve known you too long and have seen you solve too many cases to doubt you, you big idiot.” He leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to Sherlock’s indignant lips.

Sherlock gazed at him levelly. “I love you, John.” John smiled. Sherlock smiled. “Now, let’s go throw some rocks at his window so I can show you how right I am”

“Sherlock, wait!” Too late. Sherlock was only pausing by the door to grab a fistful of little rock chips from around the base of the succulent Mrs Hudson had left on their hall table, _(you’ll have to water it boys, I’m your landlady not your house keeper)_ before clambering down the stairs. “What are you going to say? Come out, little drummer boy! We want to see if you’re everything Sherlock says you are?!”

“Don’t be silly, John. We’ll just ask him some pointed questions…” They’d arrived under the window of number 217 and Sherlock bowled his handful of rock chips up at the second floor window of the building. Net curtains fluttered in the slight breeze and as the window was half open, many of the rocks would have made their way _into_ the bedroom. The drumming stopped and the boy’s husky voice could be heard to shout, “What the bloody bollocking hell? Who the crap is chuckin’ rocks into my room?”

“Down here!” Sherlock yelled up at the window. An outline of a figure could be seen behind the net curtain. “We wanted to speak with you about your drumming”

“Yeah? Well you can both piss-off. Tough luck if my drumming’s bothering you. I live here now so you’re gonna have to get used to it, yeah?”

“No no no it’s not like that. We’re not here to complain” Sherlock waved his arms about frustratedly.

“Sure, sure you’re not. Listen here – you’re just gonna have to get in line, mate, because I’m having a bit of a shit time right now, thanks. I’m trying to settle in to a new home and a new school, and I’ve just had the worst week of my life.”

“But-“

“Nah, shut up, right! I’ve had a fight with my dad because of a black eye from a fight at school, then I fell off my bike and twisted my wrist when I had a brand new stupid piece to learn for the school play. I went to a party to try to mellow out a bit, if ya know what I mean, and met a girl I thought I could be friends with only I’ve stuffed-up even that now!” the ghostly voice wailed.

“How?”

“Ya really wanna know?” The kid pulled the netting aside and leaned out the window. John gasped and Sherlock gritted out _Damn! There’s always something!_ under his breath.

John looked, astonished, at the living embodiment of Sherlock's deductions: dreadlocked hair, caramel skin, slender build, spectacles and bandaged left wrist, which was waving a set of drum sticks around like a baton and extending them perilously far through the window. “I’ll tell ya then. I’ve been thinking and thinking all night and day and I’ve had to face the conclusion that I like her _more_ than as just friends. There. I’ve said it.”

“So?” Sherlock asked. John glanced at him. He was staring up at the window as if transfixed.

“Well derrr! Look at me! I’m a _CHICK!_ ”

“So?” he repeated. John could see he’d be stuck on ‘so’ for a while. Time to nudge the needle out of the groove.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John hissed as he elbowed him in the side. “I think this might be a bit of a big revelation for her. That’s what she’s been working out. It’s a bit massive” he whispered.

“Oh John. Between us and our immediate families where else is she going to find more people to talk to?” he whispered, without taking his eyes from the window.

“Wot? That’s it? Have nothing to say any more? I’m outa here. I’ve got Les Mis to prep for so just bugger off back to 221b to your poncey violin, and take your bloody doctor with ya”

Sherlock turned to John with widened eyes and an excited grin. “See! I told you. I haven’t played my violin since they moved in and she knows, she _knows_ , John!” He turned swiftly back to the window.

“Wait! I have plenty to say to you but that’s for another time, and there _will be_ another time, many of them. For now, just tell me - how did you know I play the violin?”

“Well derr, it’s obvious! Look at the fingertips of ya left hand – stringed instrument. That, added to the fact that you’re left shoulder is slightly higher than ya right and you’ve got a bit of a darker patch of skin on ya neck where ya chinrest sits says it’s a violin.”

“And John being a doctor?”

“Pfft. Please. Don’t insult my intelligence” and with that the little drummer _girl_ gave them the finger, spun around and disappeared back into her room to resume her banging and crashing.

As he gazed up at the window in awe, Sherlock’s smile widened into a full-on shit-eating grin. He turned excitedly to John. “Oh yes, YES! The game has a new player, John.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at working some case elements into a fic so please don't be too harsh with me! :0) I now know where Mark Gatiss is coming from when he says how difficult it is to formulate the deductions in the series. I don't know how they weave such intricate elements together to make a plausible deduction! It was hard enough thinking of simple little crack-y ones. Hope you enjoyed reading. Please leave a comment if you have the time.  
> JuJu xx


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